Montjoy rode through a dewy June morning. He crossed the bridge, his horse’s hoofs sounding deeply, an air from the sea filling nostrils, the light striking sails of fishing boats gliding away below the arches where all widened. Montjoy was bound for Damson Wood. Montjoy rode homeward in the evening, after a day in the deep wood, after a visit to Damson Hill graveyard. His two stout serving men, riding the brown and the roan behind him, thought it a strange visit. Nearing the bridge Montjoy checked the black horse and turning slightly, looked back at Saint Leofric’s mound. There was now full, level flow of reddened light, and the mound was bathed in it. The church stood up in that light, the cloister walls were made faery. “Oh, Hugh and Hugh! I walk in your heart and I see the dark engines, and I walk in your mind and it is a hold for sorceries!” He put his horse into motion. “Such a plan and such a course could never have come to Mark! Though it might have come to Prior Matthew.” He was upon the bridge. Others were crossing. Sir Robert Somerville he caught up with. “Well met, Somerville!” “My lord Montjoy--” Somerville presented his kinsman riding beside him. The sunset reddened and reddened. The waters glowed below the arches, the boats moved, a barge slipped underneath, emerged and went up stream, its rowers singing. The dark houses rose from the river bank. One that was narrow and latticed, close to the old wall, drew their eyes. The sunset made its windows to blaze. Somerville and Montjoy both saw, without the physical eye, the courtesan, Morgen Fay. Somerville began to talk of where he had been. He had been to show his kinsman Saint Leofric’s and a miracle. Said Sir Humphrey, “I have always desired to see a miracle.” “Saw you one?” “You gibe!” said Somerville. “But we did see one. It would not be wise, even for Montjoy, to doubt to the throng that we saw one!” “What happened?” “A woman received her sight.” They left the bridge. The dying rose of the sun touched Middle Forest’s High Street. Folk were yet abroad, going this way and going that; most or all going home. Droning sound was in the air; then Saint Ethelred’s bell began to ring. Somerville talked on. He lived so, with vivacity, like a quick sword playing with joy in its own point and edge, like wine liking its own sparkle from beaker to cup. To a certain depth he could read Montjoy. Old rivalries, jealousies conflicts existed between Somerville and Montjoy. Now all the sea above was calm, but those ancient tendencies stayed like reefs below. Light-drawing boats could pass above them, but greater craft might be in danger. Somerville’s quick and agreeable voice jetted on. His eye, quick as a hawk’s, marked the small erect man riding the black horse. If Montjoy in his nature had sensitive tracts, far be it from Somerville not to touch these! Do it always, though with swordly skill, keeping one’s self invisible, invulnerable!